Through the looking glass
by partofforever
Summary: "You think about me quite a lot, admit it, Harry. And fondly… most of the time." In which Harry accidentaly brings his enemy back from the dead. Post-Canon. MoD!Harry.


_**AN** : Written using this prompt: I looked in the mirror and realized who was staring back. It was someone I wasn't content with._

 _Thanks to the anon from tumblr who requested it! I barely ever write smut, so it was a nice challenge._  
 _I never wrote anything so... twisted, at least not for this pairing, hopefully it didn't turn out too bad._

* * *

 **Through the looking glass**

The first time it happened, Harry was sure his mind was playing tricks on him.

It was a long day, a hard one. Being an Auror wasn't as exciting as he thought it would be and Harry caught himself rethinking his career choices more often than not these days. The Ministry... He envied Ron who quitted as soon as he realized the paperwork was the main task of Aurors in the newly created world.

The peace was no longer new, not really - after nearly two decades nothing could be called particularly new. There were no more battles to fight, no enemies to chase, no friends to avenge. As much as Harry hated to admit it, his work was rather boring. He watched Ginny quidditch's triumphs with a smile that had a tendency to turn into a somewhat bitter grimace the moment she looked away.

Their children were a nice change, making Harry feel alive again, stirring the bottomless pool of affection he still had to give.

But now his children were gone, writing him less and less often with each passing year and he was standing in front of the bathroom mirror - Ginny off to play some important match in Spain - staring at his own reflection and seeing someone he wasn't glad to see, not at all.

Suddenly, he catched a glimpse of red in his left eye and even though his heart skipped a beat, he leaned closer and examined the green iris. It looked perfectly normal, maybe a tad worn out, but still his.

He sighed and went to sleep, deciding to take a week off after Christmas. He wanted to spend some time with his children.

...

The second time was different, more... disturbing.

He was drinking with his colleagues - Ally Hunter, the youngest in his team, was apparently getting married - and somewhere between his third and fourth glass of wine, he excused himself and reached for the bathroom.

It was small and not as clean as he would wish it to be, but the alcohol was already buzzing in his blood a bit too loudly and Harry didn't pay too much attention to his surroundings. There was a long crack on the mirror, splitting his reflection in an uneven half, his own lips smirking at him oddly from the other side of nowhere. Was is the alcohol or...?

Harry inhaled sharply, the wand in his pocket swiftly brought up in front of him.

His reflection was no longer his, not entirely. The left eye... It was slowly turning more and more red, his skin getting so unnaturally pale he could count the tiny veins under his eye.

Trying to control his nerves - _It's the alcohol_ , he thought frantically, _I had one glass too much_. - Harry looked into the mirror. Only a half of his reflection smiled at him.

...

The third time was probably the worst, because Harry could no longer pretend it wasn't happening. Three times - one too many to call it an illusion.

He was brushing his teeth lazily, no one home to nudge him to hurry up, the sound of flowing water the only thing to be heard. At times his liked his solitude, the feeling of being free and not tied to anything. Connections were bound to feelings and feelings were harder than he initially thought. When the war ended, he was drained. Loosing so many loved-ones so soon - too soon - made him afraid that it may happen again. He was in desperate need of affection, both given and received, and terribly scared of it.

He wasn't thinking about any of this brushing his teeth - he was wondering whether Mr Weasley will recover in time for Victoire's wedding; Ron's father gor bitten by some kind of an exceptionally aggressive teacup during one of his latest missions and there was a chance he might not dance with his oldest granddaughter.

"Don't worry," his reflection spoke casually and Harry blinked, once again sure he was imagining it. "He's tougher than you think." A pair of red eyes looked at him with amusement, his face no longer his.

Dropping the blue toothbrush in terror, Harry run away, not bothering to turn the water off.

...

He started avoiding all mirrors, covering the one in his bathroom every time he had to use it. If he wasn't swift enough, he could still catch a glimpse of a familiar face, a face he thought he wished to forget.

...

"Fuck!" The curse escaped Harry's mouth before he could stop himself. Swearing wasn't something he did often - as an Auror he's learned to keep his nerves under control - and cursing at his own clumsiness was even more unexpected. There was blood on the white sink - he tried to shave, but as his cosmetic magic was never the best, he prefered to use a mirror. Well, that was out of question now, not when he could swear he saw Voldemort's face reflected in the kitchen window last night.

It was ridiculous, Harry knew it. Running away was not only stupid, but also potentially dangerous. If Voldemort was somehow bound to him, if there was the slightest chance he could return, Harry had to do something before it would be too late. Still, he was afraid.

Looking back, he had to wonder - was killing Voldemort the only choice he had? It stood against his moral principles, a little bit more now that he was an adult and not a child, yet he did it. He's never killed any of his suspects, not even the most dangerous. Voldemort's blood, as vile and dark as it was, was the only one on his hands.

 _His and my own_ , he thought with annoyance, looking at the red spots colouring his fingers.

It had to end.

…

"Hello, Tom."

"Hello, Harry." The reflection smirked at him with some twisted triumph. "That scratch on your jaw… Must have hurt."

There was something utterly wrong about what he was doing and Harry was well aware of it - he should've informed him team months ago, talk to Hermione and made an appointment with one of Ministry's Healers, if needed - if they thought he went crazy. Instead, he was standing in front of his mirror, talking to a reflection that should be - but certainly wasn't - his own.

"What are you doing here?" He asked simply, not wanting to get caught in some game. He was probably already playing it. "In my mirror, of all places?"

"Isn't it easy, Harry?" The laziness in Voldemort's voice, the way he seemed to enjoy torturing him, made Harry shiver. He almost forgot what his life used to be like. "You aren't dumb enough to think it's the mirror, are you?" The reflection - not really the Tom Riddle he remembered from the Chamber of Secrets and not the one he's killed either - smiled at him once again, mocking him as if he was a clueless child. "You brought me here, Harry. You wanted it, wanted to see me."

"No!"

Before he could think about anything else, Harry waved his wand carelessly, already turning around and running away.

He was sure the mirror cracked.

…

Harry thanked Merlin that he was home alone. Ginny went to the Burrow for some kind of family gathering regarding the upcoming wedding, but he excused himself, showing her the pile of paperwork he had to go through. Thankfully, she didn't insist - Harry had no idea how would he explain his own distress after what happened in the bathroom.

It was dark outside, inky black skies covered in clouds so thick he could see no stars, no sign he wasn't entirely alone. His bed hasn't feel so empty in a long time.

Harry was used to sleeping alone - sometimes Ginny had to go away for weeks for her championships and he couldn't go with her every time. It got old somewhere after her seventh win, the contrast between their lives getting painfully visible. He was _Harry Potter_ and yet… It seemed everyone forgot what it meant. People moved on so easily he was almost offended, not because he wanted his gone glory back, but because for him, the war has never ended.

Most of the time, he was able to hide it, the reflex to check his back suspiciously every now and then when he was in public or the nervous need to hide, to disapparate when someone moved just a bit too unexpectedly. He was waiting for a blow, a curse - for his own death - every day of his life.

The house was so quiet he nearly jumped at the gentle touch on his bare shoulder. A shiver run down his spine, but he tried to fight the urge to flee; a gentle kiss was placed on his hair and he murmured shakily:

"Ginny? I thought you were-" Harry stopped suddenly, his breath dying as he heard a soft chuckle against his neck, the hand embracing him certainly not belonging to his wife. "Who-"

"Do you really have to ask?" The whisper felt warm on his skin, more a caress than a threat and Harry found himself shaking his head slightly, as far as he could without facing the man behind him.

Maybe if he didn't look, it would all disappear.

"I have to admit I missed you, the afterlife isn't all that thrilling," his might-have-been killer said, as he trailed his painfully lifeful fingers across Harry's chest, placing them on his heart in what had to be a mockery of affection. "But to think _you_ would miss _me_ … Unexpected, to say the least."

"I never-" Harry wanted to decline, well aware his cheeks were already burning, but he was shushed before he could say anything.

"You think about me quite a lot, admit it, Harry." Another ghosting kiss was placed on his shoulder, only to be replaced by an unexpected bite that made him gasp. "And fondly… most of the time." He could swear his deadliest enemy smiled, though the mere thought seemed ridiculous. "Isn't it hard, Harry? Pretending that you like it?" The hand that was resting on his heart only a minute ago, moved again as Tom spoke, his thumb circling teasingly around Harry's hipbone. "Your boring job and your boring colleagues… Your boring _wife_."

Harry hated that his blood seemed to be rushing through his body with an urgency he hasn't felt in years, answering to his enemy's call so unhesitatingly, as if he was truly yearning for it, though he couldn't find a single reason _why_ would he want it so badly.

He gave up at last, letting Tom turn him to his back so they were facing each other at last. Tom's red eyes seemed radiant in the silky darkness, more real than anything else.

"They all forgot so easily, didn't they?" There was a certain fondness in Tom's touch as if he truly _understood_ and Harry couldn't help thinking that Tom looked almost beautiful, in the odd _barely human_ way he remembered from Dumbledore's memories. Did Tom look like that the first night he tried to kill his foretold enemy? He wanted to ask, to know, suddenly curious about the long-gone past, but Tom had other plans, cupping his groin through the worn-out fabric of his old Gryffindor pyjamas and making Harry realize he was already half-hard.

"More," he begged, before he could stop himself. His own lewd moan made Harry terribly ashamed, though it wasn't all that new - he's slept with men before, enjoyed it, maybe a bit too much for his own good, considering that one time some punk from Invisibility Task Office tried to blackmail him back before he married Ginny… Merlin, why was he even thinking about it all of a sudden?

"Of course I'll give you more, but only if you admit it." Tom's words brought him back to reality, grounding him, though he must have looked puzzled, because Tom had to explain: "Admit that you hate them for forgetting, for living so carelessly." Harry felt Tom moving, his hands once again on Harry's waist, so tender it could be a dream if Harry wasn't painfully aware of his own arousal. No dream could feel like this. "Admit that you long to be their Chosen One once again, their saviour. That you want someone to shatter the peace they've built, so you could save them again." Their eyes met and Harry had nowhere to hide, nowhere to go to keep his most guarded secret safe. "Admit that you missed me."

The kiss on his mouth felt like dying, like walking into Forbidden Forest once again, facing the inevitable. He pushed Tom's hair and clinged onto his back, nails digging into the skin that had no right to exist. Was it really meant to be? Did he really bring Tom back? Did he really miss him?

He recognized the spell before the warmth had a chance to spread through his body. Wandless, wordless - was he really expecting anything less? His muscles relaxed somewhat against his will, even if he was no longer sure whether he had any will to begin with. Grasping reality was out of his reach and at least this wasn't an entirely foreign territory; he was used to being out of control.

"Please," he begged faintly, trying not to grind into the flesh above him, not to moan every time Tom's warm breath tickled his feverish skin. "I can't-"

 _I can't say it,_ he tried to cry, _I can't say it because it'll make it all too real,_ he wanted to explain, but the words never escaped his mouth, turning into an obscenely loud howl as Tom thrusted into him mercilessly, like a man losing his patience at last.

"Did you miss me?" Tom was pinning him down now and Harry couldn't help arching his back as Tom set a painfully slow, excruciating rhythm. He felt overwhelmed. "Tell me, Harry, did you dream about me?"

"Y-yes," he whimpered frantically, hoping the word Tom wanted to hear so much would make him speed up, grant him the light-headed bliss free of thoughts, only if for a moment.

Oh, how terribly was he mistaken.

"But do you know _why_?" Tom was cupping his face now, stilling Harry's desperate moves and making it impossible not to look at him. "Why do you miss me so much, Harry?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head in a stupid attempt to make it all disappear, to make it go away once and for all, so he didn't have to deal with the awful truth about himself, but nothing could stop Tom's soft whisper, so gentle Harry could almost believe Tom was pitying him.

 _"Only I can soothe your pain ."_


End file.
